


may we cum again (aka don't wanna cum alone)

by faithtastic



Series: DWBYG One Shots [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Breast Fucking, Crack, F/F, Kassie Skai, Mild BDSM, Orgasm Delay, Porn Star AU, Smut, Strap-Ons, The Cummander, Vaginal Penetration, basically filth, clitlit according to theproseofnight and dreamsaremywords, cracky smut about two outrageously dominant sexual personalities, dwbyg au, sexual power play, srsly these are two thirsty motherfuckers, who underneath it all are soft and mushy big hearted sweethearts™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 05:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: From a tumblr prompt: What would happen if both Lexa (The Cummander) and Clarke (Kassie Skai) meet? Like in a world where they are both in the porn industry? Would they end up only exclusively working with each other? How would their meeting go down?OrThat DWBYG au of an au.





	may we cum again (aka don't wanna cum alone)

The after party is in full swing by the time Lexa hoists herself onto a tall stool and signals the bartender for a drink. According to the chalkboard menu propped against the gantry, porn star martinis are half price until midnight and she barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

Because, a) how original and, b) the awards organisers were clearly too cheap to stump for a free bar, which is frankly indicative of the low regard that porn aimed at a primarily queer female demographic is held in by the industry at large.

Lexa has _many_ gripes about the systemic inequalities and rampant misogyny of the adult entertainment business and on any other occasion, she’d be boycotting the hell out of this self-congratulatory circle jerk. But right now, political axes to grind aside? She just really needs some fucking alcohol.

Anything to take the bitter edge off her loss.

She was robbed.

Nominated in three categories for Apocalicks Now, the coveted Golden Vulva was within touching distance. Hers for the taking.

Anya was convinced she had it in the bag; her publicist would’ve bet the proverbial farm on it. In the run up to the ceremony, she’d mounted a persuasive “for your consideration” campaign and everyone involved in the production and beyond seemed assured of Lexa’s triumph.

Lexa even had a rousing acceptance speech prepared. 

But, instead, here she is: empty-handed and brooding, wishing she was anywhere but this tacky nightclub adjacent to the convention centre.

With a sigh, she drains the martini. Catches the bartender’s eye and mouths, “another, please” over the EDM relentlessly assaulting her eardrums.

She’s deep into that second drink, taking a long, ruminative sip and trying to ignore the tension headache building behind her eyes, when someone collides with her elbow, sending the contents of the glass sloshing over the rim and onto her lap.

“—the fuck?!”

Letting out a furious growl, she leaps off the stool and dabs angrily at the spillage with a discarded cocktail napkin. But it’s useless. Her bespoke tux, custom-tailored for the occasion, is ruined. Jesus, it looks like she pissed herself!

A red mist descends.

She whirls, about to hurl a snarled insult at this clumsy jackass, but when fierce green meets deeply contrite blue, the words stall in Lexa’s throat.

Her hostility is short-lived, vanishing the instant her gaze drops to a rack that could stop ten lanes of traffic. They’re D cups, one marginally bigger than the other by her estimation. As an enthusiast and connoisseur, and having handled breasts of all shapes, sizes and hefts in her line of work, Lexa is an excellent judge of these things. 

(Accurately guessing bra measurements is a popular party trick of hers. She’s so good at it, people assume she must’ve worked at Victoria’s Secret or in the lingerie department at Macy’s. But, nope, it’s just one of her innate lesbian abilities. Like an aptitude for assembling flat pack furniture and being impervious to straight white cis men’s toxic bullshit.)

Whatever the case, she really wants to thank whoever picked out that figure-hugging red dress because it’s doing an outstanding job of showcasing several inches of cleavage.

She’d gotten a distant glimpse when Kassie Skai—the subject of considerable industry buzz thanks to her breakthrough performance in The MILF of Wall Street—went on stage to collect the first of two awards of the evening but, up close? Lexa feels as though she’s reached a whole new dimension of gay. Extra-planetary. Or like she rode a fucking rainbow to the mythical land of Gaytopia, presided over by Hayley Kiyoko, where every day is Pride and happy hour never ends.

She’s two seconds away from dropping to her knees and swearing fealty to those tits when Kassie speaks at last, leaning in to be heard over Rihanna warbling about how she wants to make her lover beg for it and swallow their pride. In this moment, Lexa has never related more to the lyrics of a song.

“Can I get you another drink?”

Kassie’s voice is a gravelly husk that Lexa would love to hear panting her name—her real name—while her signature toy, a smooth, iridescent black length of military grade silicone she calls the Nightstick, is buried eight inches deep.

Even so, she plays it cool.

“Haven’t you spilled enough alcohol over me for one night?”

Lips the same shade of fire truck red as the dress twist into a sly smirk.

“I don’t know.” Kassie’s eyes flit down Lexa’s body, a blatant once-over. “The faster I get you back to my room and out of those wet pants, the happier we’ll both be.”

Lexa lifts her chin, curbing a faint smile of her own. “Bold of you to assume I’d accept the invitation.”

“Babe, considering you’ve been drooling over The Delinquents like they’re your last meal before the world is about to end, I think it’s a safe assumption to make.”

The Delinquents…? Lexa’s slight frown clears when she realises Kassie is referring to her breasts. Ordinarily, she’d find this crass but on Kassie it’s kind of roguishly charming.

With a toss of her hair, Kassie sidles closer, reaching out to run a finger down the lapel of Lexa’s jacket.

“How about we skip the pretence and jump straight to the part where you come find me in Room 307 and I show you exactly why I won Best Supporting Clit _and_ Best Newcummer?”

It’s a tempting offer.

One that makes Lexa want to reconsider the rule she’s always stuck to about not screwing her peers off the clock.

It would just be an awards-season hookup, she tells herself.

One and done.

(Well, more than one. The Cummander’s reputation is at stake here, so Lexa won’t be satisfied until she’s made renowned power bottom Kassie Skai tap out or black out. Whichever happens first.)

What harm could it do, really?

She takes a half step closer and doesn’t miss the slight catch of Kassie’s breath as their bodies brush together, how Kassie’s eyes flash dark before they flutter shut as Lexa slides her hand beneath the fall of sleek blonde waves. Kassie’s lips part in anticipation and Lexa smiles to herself, unseen. But she evades that siren’s call, her mouth skating along the line of Kassie’s jaw instead.

Standing so close, Lexa feels the shudder that goes through Kassie when she murmurs directly into her ear, the hot gust of Lexa’s breath disturbing a few strands of hair.

“Go upstairs and take off your dress. Leave the lingerie on. Lay on the bed. _Don’t_ get any ideas about touching yourself while you wait. Understood?”

Kassie nods.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

There’s a provocative edge to it that clues Lexa in immediately: this woman is all about pushing buttons. Or pulling levers. Topping from the bottom.

Huh, well. They’ll see about that, won’t they?

  
  


***

  
  


Lexa waits exactly ten minutes, not a second longer, before she rides the elevator up to the third floor. The door to 307 is slightly ajar and she squares her shoulders, straightens her spine, schools her expression to nonchalance as she uses her foot to push the door wider.

The sight that greets her causes a momentary lapse of composure and a flood, a deluge, an actual damn tsunami of arousal to further drench her pants.

“What did I tell you?” she demands thickly, a treacherous break in her voice as she surveys the scene.

Kassie looks down the length of her body, framed by wide-spread, drawn up knees and offers a faux innocent, “Oops? My hand slipped.”

The hand in question, shoved beneath the flimsy barrier of red panties, doesn’t cease its movements and Lexa stares, watching, the slick sounds reaching her even from the doorway.

She feels weak and light-headed, overcome with lust. Barely has the mental capacity to close the door.

“Guess that means you’ll have to punish me. Show me who’s boss,” Kassie says through a soft gasp, cupping her other hand around a bra-clad breast and kneading, fingers working a little faster between her legs.

It’s a taunt more than anything else and it makes Lexa snap back into focus.

She peels off her jacket, tossing it aside. Keeps her gaze fixed on Kassie’s as she advances slowly towards the bed and loosens her tie, pulling it free of the shirt collar. She wraps some of the length of silk around each fist and pulls it taut, testing the give. Eyes the wooden slats on the headboard.

Yeah, this’ll do.

“I’m The Cummander.” Lexa bites out. “No one starts without me.”

  
  


***

  
  


The chemistry was instant and explosive.

Like someone shoved five sticks of dynamite up Clarke’s vagina, lit the fuse and ran away. 

From the moment their eyes locked, she knew she wanted to spend the rest of the night and all of tomorrow getting railed through the mattress by this girl. 

Because what better way for Clarke to celebrate her double win than with multiple orgasms? And from what she’s heard on the grapevine from other girls, by all accounts “The Cummander” is a stone cold top who _always_ delivers a good time. 

Until they met, Clarke had held a healthy level of incredulity about someone who refers to themselves by that title professionally.

But, in person… God, she gets it.

Something about the intensity The Cummander exudes excites Clarke like nothing else.

So, yeah, when a hot piece who looks like _that_ starts issuing orders in a crisp, authoritative tone? Of course Clarke assumes the position; that position being: flat on her back, legs akimbo and arms above her head. 

But The Cummander’s touch is surprisingly gentle as she takes hold of Clarke’s wrists, checking in first with a careful look and a question threaded through with soft-spoken concern. “Are you comfortable being restrained?”

Clarke bites her lip and nods. “Yeah. Although you should know I don’t submit easily.”

It earns her a subtle smirk, a twitch of bee stung lips she’s dying to get a taste of. “Don’t worry, I’m an accomplished brat tamer.”

A brief silence ensues as her wrists are bound together, secured by the silk tie looped twice through the headboard.

“Mm. I’m not worried.” 

Her eyes rake over the long, lean frame of the woman knelt astride her, openly appraising. Still clad in the tuxedo pants and a white dress shirt, the trim fit has Clarke’s mouth watering in anticipation of seeing what’s hidden underneath.

She drops her voice to its sultriest register. “Actually, I’m counting on it, _Cummander_.”

Darkened eyes smoulder but The Cummander says nothing. She tightens the makeshift rope, enough to pinch the skin a little when Clarke tests the wriggle room.

Once The Cummander is done, she climbs off the bed and goes over to retrieve her jacket. With her back to the bed, Clarke can’t see what the other girl is doing but her curiosity is piqued by the sound of rustling and a zip being dragged down.

The Cummander glances over her shoulder, levelling Clarke with a thousand yard stare. It holds her in place as effectively as the tie around her wrists.

“You have attitude. I appreciate that.” 

While she speaks, The Cummander never takes her eyes off Clarke, hands still busy in front of her, and impatient as Clarke is to catch a glimpse, she can’t complain about the view she has of The Cummander’s succulent peach of an ass. So tight and round and sexy. She wants to take a bite out of it.

Distracted by its globular glory, she has to force herself to tune in to The Cummander’s next words.

“But I gave you strict instructions and you defied me. Which means you have to face the consequences of your actions, Kassie Skai.”

At last, The Cummander turns around, hands clasped behind her back. 

And Clarke’s eyes bulge at the sight. 

It stops the air in her lungs.

Because, there, bursting proudly from the open fly of The Cummander’s pants is a big black dildo.

It’s already lubed up.

  
  


***

  
  


Clarke’s first thought is: where the hell did that monster even come from? 

The second: she might faint before she’s able to take the whole thing, despite the earlier solo play leaving her slick and ready.

Because it’s _huge_. 

Gargantuan.

Nearly half as thick in diameter as it is long, with a bulbous ridge on the end for g-spot stimulation. 

And it’s… glittery?

In her short career in porn so far, Clarke has seen and made use of plenty of toys but none as intimidatingly large as this one. Just looking at it makes perspiration break out on her brow and every muscle in her body clench.

Her third thought is that she’s way too eager to feel The Cummander filling her up to waste time questioning the logic of the strap-on’s inexplicable magical appearance.

She’s just gonna go with it.

(As we all should.)

There’s a smug gleam in The Cummander’s eyes now, arrogance wafting from her as she approaches. She leads with her hips, the dildo swaying with each sure-footed step she takes.

Slowly, _too_ slowly, she opens her shirt to the navel. 

She isn’t wearing a bra, the curve of her tits and an expanse of bronzed skin revealed to Clarke’s hungry gaze. Clarke itches to touch, to feel the soft give of warm flesh in her hands, and she’s suddenly frustrated she won’t be able to do any of that in her current predicament. 

The slight curve of The Cummander’s mouth tells Clarke she _knows_.

Without a word, The Cummander unbuckles her belt. Toes off her shoes. Removes her socks. Pushes the pants down her thighs until they pool at her feet. 

All the while watching Clarke watch her.

The eye contact is electric.

It makes Clarke squirm against the sheets, rubbing her thighs together in a futile bid to get some friction against her clit.

“Wanna see you. All of you.” She jerks her chin up, indicating the shirt that still hangs off The Cummander’s narrow shoulders. “Take it off.”

“I don’t take orders.” The Cummander’s voice never wavers but the rigid set of her jaw, the bob of her throat as she swallows gives away her struggle to maintain her composure in the face of Clarke’s towering thirst. “And you’re in no position to bargain or make demands.”

“Oh yeah?” 

Clarke lets her legs fall open again.

The Cummander’s sharp inhalation through her nostrils tells Clarke everything she needs to know about the ruined state of her underwear.

But then The Cummander appears to collect herself, expression smoothing out as she squares her stance. She looks at Clarke with almost cool disregard. 

“An expert manipulator. I see I’m going to have my work cut out with you.”

To Clarke’s chagrin, the shirt remains on as The Cummander retakes her spot on the bed, knees planted firmly within the bracket of Clarke’s spread thighs. She shivers as impossibly long, elegant fingers tease back and forth along her inner thigh, from the edge of her panties to the bend of her knee, blunt nails lightly scoring the skin.

“Fortunately, the Nightstick has a proven track record.” With her other hand, The Cummander caresses the shiny length of the toy—the _Nightstick_. “It’s 99.9 percent effective at making bad girls mend their ways.”

Impressed as Clarke is by the audacity of giving this jumbo dong a nickname—which is some kind of hardcore Game of Thrones shit, like naming Valyrian steel swords—her natural instinct to buck authority comes to the fore. 

But, damn, if she doesn’t also have an inopportune brainwave.

A porn parody: Game of Moans. 

All about Kassie Targayryen’s quest to be Queen of the Iron Bone, the most feared strap in all of the seven kingdoms. One by one, she uses it to conquer her rivals Raven Stark Naked, Octavia Greytoy, Niylah Lannfister and the Wildthing giantess, Echo (which will require some serious WETA-style camera perspective trickery to pull off but, whatever).

She makes a mental note to jot this all down later.

Right now there’s something far more important demanding her attention.

She pokes her tongue out the corner of her mouth while her eyes drag from the silicone shaft held loosely in The Cummander’s fist up to pouty lips and, higher, to pupils blown so wide they nearly eclipse the irises.

The sight sends a little zap through Clarke, a bolt of excitement that shoots down her spine and straight to her pussy. It makes her gush; hard.

Still, she sasses back. “Maybe I’m in the 0.1 percent beyond redemption.”

“Or maybe you just need a firmer hand than most.”

“Oh? Are you gonna spank me? Leave my ass so red raw I won’t be able to sit down without thinking about your handprint on my cheeks?”

The Cummander’s jaw works from side to side as she considers it. “No,” she says finally. “That kind of physical power play doesn’t interest me.” 

Her eyes soften, or perhaps it’s just a trick of the light. 

“I don’t intend to hurt you. I want to _dismantle_ you, piece by piece. Make you come so fucking hard you’ll compare every other orgasm you have in future to the ones I’m going to give you tonight.”

As if to punctuate the point, she guides the head of the dildo over the soaked crotch of Clarke’s underwear. Rubs against the labia, dragging up and down the length of her slit with a couple of slow shunts. It makes Clarke’s eyes roll back in their sockets. She chokes on a moan as she pushes her hips forward to chase firmer contact, only for The Cummander to angle away.

“So. This is what’s going to happen: you’ll do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, for as long as I tell you. And only once I’m convinced you’re capable of following direction without undermining my authority, am I going to reward you with the Nightstick.”

Clarke’s ingrained obstinacy prevents her from capitulating too quickly. 

She raises her chin, defiant to the last. “And if I don’t?”

“We end this now and I find someone more receptive downstairs at the party. Your choice, Kassie.”

When no answer is immediately forthcoming, The Cummander starts to reach for the knots but Clarke pulls hard on the restraints and blurts, “Wait.”

She blows a breath out the side of her mouth. Rolls her eyes a little. Adopts the most saccharine voice when she says, playing along, “Please, I can be better.”

The Cummander assess her for a few weighted seconds before giving a curt nod. 

“Some ground rules. Swear, scream, by all means make as much noise as you want, but please don’t use gendered slurs if you’re going to talk dirty. Because I hate that and it really just kills the mood for me. If at any point you want to stop, we will, no explanation needed. Just tell me.”

“Safeword?”

“Raccoon.”

Said with such deadpan seriousness that Clarke has to stifle an involuntary snort.

“Okay…”  She blinks. “Anything else?”

“Like I said, I’m not about inflicting pain but I don’t mind being a little rough. Scratching. Biting. Both giving and receiving. How do you feel about leaving marks?”

“I mean, I’m into it.” Clarke chuckles. “Honestly, there isn’t much I won’t let a hot girl do to me.”

A barely-there smile flickers across The Cummander’s face. “Noted. I don’t have any work commitments for a couple of weeks so bruises aren’t an issue. You?”

It isn’t something that occurred to Clarke until now but, fuck yes, she wants to scatter mouth-shaped mementos all over that graceful neck and across the sharp lines of those collarbones. Not only there but the insides of The Cummander’s thighs, her hip bones, the curve of her outrageously pert bubble butt. 

But, more than any of that, what Clarke really wants is to scrape her nails down The Cummander’s back while the Nightstick plows into her deep and hard.

She moistens her lips. “Same.”

The Commander hooks her fingers into the waistband of Clarke’s panties. 

“Good. Then let’s begin.”

  
  


***

  
  


Lexa can’t fully explain the primal reaction she has upon seeing Kassie nude. 

Videos are one thing, and Lexa made a point of familiarising herself with the performances of the other nominees to learn their strengths and weaknesses, but in the flesh Kassie is… something else.

Extraordinary.

Maybe it’s the generous coverage of dark blonde hair that crowns her vulva and frames a juicy pink cunt, when Lexa is so used to working with actresses who wax or shave most of theirs off.

Lexa has a meticulous landing strip herself but she’s always admired women who reject patriarchal beauty standards, even if she doesn’t quite have the courage of her convictions to do it personally.

Kassie’s unselfconscious pride in her natural, fuller bush is refreshing and powerfully sexy. Coupled with the thickness of her creamy thighs, the gentle curves of her hips and stomach, the ample bust constrained by a balcony bra, hard nipples poking enticingly through the red lace, Kassie’s body is a wonderland of soft femininity.

Lexa doesn't think she's ever been more sexually attracted to anyone in her entire life. 

In fact, she’s dangerously close to casting aside her script for this scene and getting down to the main event—fucking Kassie into next week. Which should probably set off alarm bells, because if _she_ can’t demonstrate patience and self-control then Kassie will never learn and that’s what this is all about, right? Teaching her a lesson. Correcting insubordinate behaviour. Structure and discipline and complete surrender to another’s indomitable will.

But Lexa's getting ahead of herself.

There's more she wants to uncover. Namely, the incredible tits she's been fantasising about since their two worlds collided over that lame cocktail, which may now be her favourite libation. 

With her sense of purpose and balance restored, her hands are steady as they push the satiny bra cups up to expose the full magnificence of Kassie's breasts. Enticing pale pink nipples stand erect and puckered tight, begging for Lexa's mouth, and she bends to take one between her lips, to flick her tongue over the stiff point before circling it slowly. 

Kassie groans and thrusts her chest forward; encouraging. And Lexa opens wider to take more, to fit as much pillowy flesh into her mouth as she possibly can, a greedy sound of her own getting lodged in her throat, half muffled by skin. 

Her open palm slides up Kassie’s ribs to seek out the other breast, grasping and squeezing firmly in concert with the deep suction of her mouth. She pinches the nipple just as she bites down on its twin, and Kassie howls her approval towards the ceiling.

The noises soon come thick and fast (and loud). They spur Lexa on, make her chest swell with satisfaction. Every whine and guttural moan and bitten off expletive sends hot shivers racing down her spine. Because, Jesus, if this is how vocal Kassie is from someone feasting on her tits alone then Lexa hopes the guests in the adjacent rooms brought earplugs with them for their stay.

She eventually abandons Kassie's breasts, leaving a final parting bite on the underside of the larger of the two—Monet? Or is it Manet? Lexa can’t quite recall from her viewing of Moaning Lisa. Either way, she sinks her teeth in with enough force to provoke a yelp and an emphatic curse. 

She smirks. Charts a lazy course down the middle of Kassie's torso, kissing every freckle, every inch of soft, supple skin within reach as she descends the bed on all fours. (Fives, if you count the extra appendage that skims against the sheets as she goes.)

The closer Lexa gets to her ultimate destination, the more restless her captive becomes.

"Keep still."

Kassie grumbles something under her breath, borderline sass that Lexa rebukes with a warning nip but otherwise lets go unpunished.

She flattens her tongue and licks from the thatch of blonde hair on Kassie's pubic bone up to her navel, one broad, continuous wet stripe, ending in a slow swirl around the indent of her belly button. Lexa retreads the same path over and over again, starting a little lower each time. She feels the tension coiled in the body beneath her, how Kassie wrestles with what must be an overwhelming urge to squirm closer. Or away. But it isn't until Lexa purposefully nudges against the cherry red swollen protrusion of Kassie's clit that Kassie loses it, hips shooting off the mattress with such abrupt force that she jerks on the tie, causing the headboard to rattle violently.

Lexa looks up, her face a stony mask of disapproval.

"It was a reflex,” Kassie says. “I'll be ready next time."

“I’m not here to listen to weak excuses. You just earned yourself an infraction.”

“But—”

“Make that two.”

“Hey!”

“Three.”

The face journey Kassie goes on is highly entertaining to witness, running the gamut from shock to outrage to disgruntlement in the span of a few seconds. She opens her mouth and takes a deep breath, no doubt about to volley back with a smart retort, but then she sees the slow arch of Lexa’s eyebrow and her jaw snaps shut.

She glares instead.

And Lexa has to combat the burgeoning smile that threatens to arise.

Because the deep displeasure etched across Kassie’s features, the pinch between her eyebrows, the flare of her nostrils and the thin, flat line of her mouth, is far more endearing than it has any right to be. It makes Lexa want to soothe the grumpiness away with the sort of delicate kisses that have no place in a sordid hotel room hookup between relative strangers.

So she overcompensates. “I _was_ going to give you another chance but—” A dismissive glance. Her lip curls. “I don’t think you deserve my leniency.”

Blue eyes brim with insolence but Kassie remains tight-lipped.

She stays silent even as Lexa slips off the bed and prowls across the room. Doesn’t make a peep when Lexa drops into the armchair in the corner of the room, adopting an elegant slouch as she turns on the TV and flicks through the channels until she lands on MSNBC.

As punishments go, it’s cruel yet informative: one minute of Rachel Maddow’s incisive political commentary for each instance of bad behaviour. And it’s highly effective too. Nothing makes a pushy bottom roll over faster than simply leaving them tied up and walking away, at least in Lexa’s experience.

But, if anything, her feigned disinterest makes Kassie even more determined to misbehave.

While Lexa keeps her eyes trained on the TV, pretending to be engrossed in the report, her true focus is on Kassie. Attuned instead to all the unsubtle tactics Kassie uses to distract her. The overly dramatic huffs and sighs, how the headboard creaks as Kassie twists and turns and tries to work free of the knots, kicking her feet a little and growling when her attempts amount to nothing.

It takes every ounce of willpower for Lexa to maintain a neutral expression, the outward illusion of stoicism.

She waits until the commercial break before she returns to the bed.

“Are you done with your tantrum? Or do you need another time out? Because I’m interested to hear more of Rachel’s take on EPA deregulation.”

She reads the rebellion loud and clear in Kassie’s stare: _fuck Rachel, fuck EPA and fuck you_. 

And it dawns on Lexa that she’s going to need a change of strategy.

  
  


***

  
  


Keeping up the pretense of belligerence is difficult enough without The Cummander leaning across Clarke’s body to release her from the improvised restraints, the tip of the Nightstick grazing her skin and making her stomach muscles visibly tense and flutter.

She eyes the girthy dong and licks her lips but otherwise doesn’t react, waiting to see what this girl is going to do next. 

The last thing she expects is for The Cummander to take each of her hands in turn to massage the insides of her wrists. To press light kisses where the tie chafed against Clarke’s skin while she struggled to free herself.

It causes a different kind of flutter, a strange, unfamiliar warmth that stirs in her chest. 

“I know why you’re like this. Prone to acting out. Testing my limits,” The Cummander’s tone takes on a softer lilt as she resumes rubbing the pads of her thumbs over Clarke’s left wrist, then the right. “You’re an attention seeker. An exhibitionist. It’s probably why you went into porn. You like getting fucked while people watch, don’t you?”

Clarke won’t deny it and her proud stare communicates as much.

What could be more empowering than a legion of horny women fapping over her movies? Queer girls who can’t decide whether they want to be Kassie Skai or be _in_ her, who aren’t shy about expressing their adulation or sharing detailed masturbatory fantasies on Twitter. 

Fuck, yeah, it makes her feel amazing.

“Well, Kassie—”

“Clarke.” A thoughtless correction.

The Cummander goes still, the slight parting of her lips betraying her surprise. 

Blue eyes dart between green ones. 

“Call me Clarke.”

Something unreadable flickers across The Cummander’s expression before she inclines her head subtly in acquiescence, a silent renegotiation of terms.

“You have my attention now, _Clarke_.”

The way those full lips wrap around the hard consonants of her name makes Clarke tingle all over.

“So tell me, what do you want? Since I’m feeling generous, maybe if you ask nicely enough I’ll let you have it.”

It’s an opening she can’t resist.

“How about less talking and more _doing_? I mean, supposedly you have this mean reputation for your strap game. But, so far?” Her eyes dip to the dildo then cut to the side. She shrugs. Releases a sigh. “I haven’t seen anything special.”

With her face turned away, Clarke doesn’t catch The Cummander’s affronted look but she can almost hear the grinding of that sculpted jaw and has to tamp down on a wicked smile.

“You’ve never seen me fuck,” The Cummander says in a low, threatening growl, seizing Clarke’s wrist in a merciless grip. “Not for real. No one gives better Heda.”

Clarke recognises the absurd strapline from The Cummander’s first movie and having had a too-brief introduction to what that long tongue can do, she’s inclined to agree.

Still. “Prove it.”

The Cummander bares her teeth and the next thing Clarke knows, the tie is being wound roughly around both wrists again, binding her hands together.

She pretends to put up a cursory fight, purely for show. After a minute of half-hearted resistance she lets The Cummander overpower her, pinning her hands above her head and bearing down on her with that lithe body. 

(Okay but, seriously? Clarke’s pretty sure she would come out on top in a genuine throwdown. With those noodle arms, The Cummander looks like she could get knocked over by a strong breeze.)

The new position brings their faces suddenly closer and Clarke feels the cool, firm length of the dildo trapped between them, flattened against her stomach.

For a long, tension-filled moment, they stare at one another, both panting slightly from the exertion of their brief tussle. 

The Cummander’s eyes glow with condescension and Clarke loves/hates how much it turns her on.

But she’s not going to let The Cummander enjoy her moment of triumph.

“Come on, hot stuff,” Clarke goads. “Show me why every girl from here to Polis wants to get rawed by you. Or has your legendary prowess been exaggerated?”

“Shut up.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

She reads the conflict in The Cummander’s expression. Notices the hard gulp and the slight tremble in the arms holding her down. How those green eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, are glued to her lips like they’re salvation and mutually assured destruction combined.

A war is raging inside The Cummander, Clarke can sense it. Torn between putting Clarke in her place and denying her the satisfaction. And while the other girl is physically on top, it’s Clarke who has the upper hand here in every other respect.

Capitalising on this advantage, she arches up, pushing her chest forward as much as she’s able to. She gives a purposeful little roll of her hips, pleased by the soft hitch of The Cummander’s breath, whose own hips tilt forward in automatic response, riding the undulation of the body beneath her.

“Feels good, right?” Clarke says, all scratchy whisper. “You know what would feel even better?” 

She cranes her neck up and licks at the The Cummander’s chin, relishing the slight jolt, the squeeze of hands around her bound wrists.

“Your big, thick schlong in my pu—”

“Don’t call it that,” The Cummander snaps.

“Pussy?” Clarke says, just to be a little shit, knowing exactly what The Cummander was objecting to. “What would you prefer I call my vagina? Box? Snatch? Hole? Or, oh—are you into, like, flower metaphors?”

A muscle twitches in The Cummander’s cheek. She clenches her jaw. Appears to deliberate for a moment then come to a decision.

She lets go of Clarke’s wrists and sits up. Doesn’t say a thing as she shrugs out of the shirt at last. 

And that’s when Clarke gets her first full glimpse of the intricate black ink that spans The Cummander’s upper arm. Having watched Top Hum more than once, she already knew the girl was adorned with several distinctive tattoos, but there’s something deeply sexy about seeing the body art up close and personal. Although, there’s also a lot to be said for the indelible image she has in her mind of The Cummander, stripped to the waist in a flight suit, dog tags dangling between her bare breasts, never taking off the aviators as she fucks a succession of eager Air Force cadets into submission. A visual that kept Clarke’s spank bank topped up for many weeks afterwards.

In the haze of lust, Clarke is so caught up in ogling, first, the tattoo then those gorgeous tits, that she only dimly registers the sound of fabric being ripped apart.

The shirt. 

The Cummander keeps one sleeve and tosses the remnants away. 

“I had hoped to avoid this but you’ve left me no choice.”

She gags Clarke with it. 

  
  


***

  
  


The resentful glare Lexa receives once the sleeve is partially stuffed into Clarke’s mouth and secured by a knot at the back of her head is a thing of beauty.

She growls something unintelligible, baring more of her teeth.

“You brought this punishment on yourself, Clarke.”

Another little snarl.

When she taunted Lexa into forcing her to be quiet, this probably wasn’t what Clarke meant. Some rough handling maybe or a more severe verbal rebuke, but she clearly hadn’t expected to suffer the indignity of being gagged.

“Shh,” Lexa hushes. “Just relax.”

She strokes Clarke’s cheek, unperturbed by the way blue eyes are throwing daggers. She lets her fingers trail down the smooth column of Clarke’s neck and over her sternum, past the bra still shoved up over her breasts. Cups her palms around Clarke’s tits and gives a gentle squeeze. Touches Clarke’s nipples, thumbs sweeping over and around the taut peaks until her breathing grows laboured.

Lexa’s hands continue their exploration, smoothing over ribs and waist and hips, keeping the touch light and teasing. She feels the immediate effects: the goosebumps that pebble Clarke’s skin, the tensing of Clarke’s muscles as she tries not to wriggle, the subtle rise of her hips whenever Lexa strays close to the tops of her thighs.

The sights are no less arresting. Lexa’s eyes are drawn like magnets to the thin threads of fluid dripping from Clarke’s folds onto the sheets below. Clarke is spread wide, slick and swollen and open, and Lexa is hardly able to control the impulse to plunge right in.

Fingers, tongue, the Nightstick; she doesn’t even care anymore.

She wants to bow down and pledge allegiance to Clarke’s wet cunt. Swear an oath; take a holy vow, a promise to treat Clarke’s needs as her own.

She’s already poised at Clarke’s entrance, the tip of the dildo beginning to nudge inside when a distant voice echoes in her ears. 

A line of dialogue from her debut performance in Grounder Pounder (Volume 1):

_The Cummander bows for no one_.

With that reminder, something slots back into place. It strengthens her resolve, the desire to see Clarke be the first to break.

She pulls away and Clarke’s resulting complaint is muffled by cloth.

Lexa tuts. “Still giving me attitude, even now.” 

She wraps her hand around the toy and begins to work the slippery length.

“I wonder, Clarke... how much more punishment can you take?”

She levels Clarke with her most intense, panty-dropping stare, but Clarke isn’t even paying attention. Eyelids at half mast, her gaze is zeroed in on Lexa’s fist gliding smoothly up and down the shaft.

“Look at me,” Lexa demands.

With some obvious difficulty, Clarke drags her eyes up to meet Lexa’s and the sheer _need_ Lexa sees reflected back at her makes her stroke falter for a second or two.

Girls lusting after her is nothing new, in civilian life or on set, but Clarke’s thirst is off the charts and it makes heat flood Lexa’s veins.

Clarke holds her stare, one eyebrow flicking up in silent challenge, as though she’s fully aware of the effect she’s having and entirely too smug in the knowledge of it. 

And then Clarke begins to move, rocking her hips up invitingly, humping at thin air in a tempo that mirrors Lexa’s slow tugs on the Nightstick. 

It’s a calculated tactic intended to destroy what’s left of Lexa’s already tenuous command of the situation.

It takes everything she has not to let her eyes slide shut and pump her hips faster, the slight resistance of her closed fist causing the firm little nub at the base of the toy to put pressure on her clit. She feels like she’s balancing on a knife’s edge, her grip on this scene rapidly spiralling out of control with each passing second.

Because she isn’t sure which one of them is being punished by denying them the contact they both so desperately crave.

She wants Clarke. 

Not to tame. 

Not because she has a storied reputation to live up to as The Cummander.

She wants Clarke to come for _her_ , not this persona Lexa takes on the mantle of.

Words are spilling out of her mouth before she even realises what she’s saying. “Can we drop the scene? I just want to fuck you.”

Clarke’s face cycles rapidly through several expressions before she settles on one of dark hunger and she nods her consent. 

Carefully, Lexa pulls the gag away. Exercising caution because she wouldn’t put it past a brat to bite her in a final act of rebellion. There’s a smear of red lipstick at the corner of Clarke’s mouth and Lexa wipes it off with the same level of wariness, if not gentleness. 

“Fuck, yes,” Clarke breathes out.

Her eyes roam up and down Lexa’s body voraciously. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth and sucks in a short breath. 

“Swear to God, babe, if I don’t come soon I’m gonna explode and take out this entire resort.”

“Well, I’d hate to be responsible for such a tragic loss of life.”

They gaze at one another for a beat; green lost in an endless ocean of blue. 

Clarke offers her bound wrists. “Untie me?”

Once her hands are freed, she rotates her wrists and flexes her fingers a few times, and Lexa feels a tiny pang of regret for causing any discomfort or temporary loss of circulation.

She’s about to offer an apology when Clarke reaches out, taking Lexa’s hands and slotting their fingers together. Clasping loosely, palm to palm, Clarke tugs on their arms until Lexa flows forward, breath hitching as she finds herself pinning Clarke once more. 

In this position, Lexa feels every intimate inch of the crush of their bodies. Luxuriates in it. The soft cushion of breasts sliding together; the drag of hard nipples over her own; the solidity of the toy wedged between them, its surface warmed by the friction of Lexa’s fist and their combined body heat.

Only a small gap separates their lips and the lure is impossible to resist. 

They move in tandem. 

Open mouths collide in a surge of hot breath and desperate groans. 

Within seconds it deepens into a full-on makeout that leaves Lexa gasping, heaving for air. And she can’t get enough of it, of Clarke. The flavour of her mouth; the way Clarke kisses like there’s no tomorrow; all the enthusiastic, throaty noises she makes as they devour one another. 

  
  


***

  
  


“God, your lips,” Clarke murmurs huskily against the feature in question, made all the poutier from kissing. “Are they even real? Collagen injections?”

She traps the lower lip between her teeth, nibbles at the shallow crease that bisects it down the middle, then licks over the plump, reddened swell.

“Mn, no. All natural.”

“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t make any difference to me. Fuck, I just wanna feel them wrapped around my clit when I come.”

The cocky, pleased little grin that appears is way too attractive for Clarke to deal with. She _has_ to kiss this girl, hard and deep and with a whole lot of tongue. It’s imperative at this point.

While they swap saliva, she revels in the perceptible tremors that pass through the body above her, the constant shifting of hips, the soft gasps and heavy breaths that spill into her mouth.

It’s actually possible she could come from this: making out with the most gorgeous person she’s ever laid eyes on as they grind on her like an animal in heat. And she’s not even embarrassed by how much it’s getting her there.

Even so.

She eases one hand from their joint grasp and works it between them, taking hold of the Nightstick at long last and guiding it to her pussy. It feels enormous, even bigger than it looks, and she experiences another flurry of butterflies, a mix of anticipation and excitement and slight apprehension.

But she wants it. 

Enough to cut through the nerves.

She breaks the kiss to whisper, “You owe me a ride on this bad boy, Cummander.”

“Actually, she’s female.” The Cummander angles in again, the tip of her nose grazing alongside Clarke’s. “And my name is Lexa.”

Despite her intrigue about this nugget of new information and sudden intense curiosity to know more, Clarke doesn’t get the opportunity to dwell on it because Lexa’s mouth is on hers again. 

Softer, slower, more intimate than any other kiss Clarke can remember receiving in the context of fucking. Maybe ever. It causes a tightness in her chest, makes her heart pang and her stomach flip and the only way she knows how to combat these disconcerting sensations is to push back; literally.

Using the element of surprise, she flips Lexa over. 

Rolls her onto her back and straddles her.

While Lexa gapes soundlessly, Clarke doesn’t hesitate to reposition the dildo to align with her opening.

She feels the stretch immediately as she takes the first eye-watering inch. Has to blow out a few steadying breaths, psych herself up in her mind to relax enough to take more, feeling the strain in her thighs as she gradually sinks lower. 

Lexa soon recovers from her temporary stupor, hands going to Clarke’s hips to help ease her down the shaft, that dark, dark stare glued to Clarke’s pussy as it swallows the Nightstick in small increments.

When she finally bottoms out, Clarke has never felt so stuffed in her life. It takes a moment or two to get used to it, the mild discomfort giving way to a breathtaking fullness as her inner muscles hug every inch of the toy.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks, voice strained and lashes flickering.

Her hips twitch and Clarke feels that too, the noble effort the other girl is putting in to stop herself from pounding into Clarke like she clearly wants to. Clarke sees it in taut lines of Lexa’s abdominals, the cord of tendon that stands out on her neck, the sweat beading on tan skin and dotting her hairline. 

As shows of restraint go, it’s really fucking impressive.

Clarke sucks in some air and nods. “Yeah. Feels good.”

She plants her palms on either side of Lexa’s ribs for better balance and tentatively begins to move. Rising up to then sink back down. Rolling her hips forward. Building up a rhythm. Breath catching in the back of her throat every time she takes the Nightstick as deep as it’ll go.

And Lexa does nothing to speed things up, only meeting Clarke’s slow thrusts with the same languid pace. 

She may be The Cummander but Clarke is in charge.

Using that body and the strap-on attached to it as a tool for her sexual gratification. And she purposefully doesn’t think about the naked awe in Lexa’s expression, how those green eyes hungrily track her every movement, except for the feeling of raw power the rapt attention gives her.

Clarke basks in it. 

Lifts her hands to her own tits, partly to contain their heavy bounce and partly to pluck at her nipples, twisting and rolling them between her fingers. Secure in the belief that Lexa’s self-control must be hanging by a thread by now as her stare moves sluggishly between the toy splitting Clarke open and Clarke’s hands fondling herself.

Not that she’s any less affected by what she sees and hears: the mane of mussed dark hair that’s come loose from its updo that Clarke wants to run her hands through, the rapid rise and fall of Lexa’s chest, the quiet grunts and wet squelches and the soft, insistent slap of skin on skin as they fuck. The thick, earthy scent of arousal clogs the air and fills Clarke’s lungs and there’s no better fragrance in the world. 

She’d bottle it if she could. 

Launch a perfume line. Partner with Glade or Febreeze or Yankee Candle. Develop a room odouriser, a fabric softener, a car air freshener. Because who wants a Magic Tree dangling from the rearview mirror when you could have a Magic Bush? 

There’s no limit to Clarke’s entrepreneurial ambition to monetise Kassie Skai’s brand.

The sensory overload brings her to the brink far sooner than she expected. She can’t hold back a desperate moan as Lexa ruts her hips up and the angle hits Clarke in a way that makes her eyes screw shut and her mouth drop open. 

Her hands scramble behind to grip Lexa’s thighs as she leans back, arching her spine, all the encouragement Lexa needs to start driving into her in earnest.

“Look at me,” Lexa says, a far brittler, shakier echo of her earlier harsh instruction.

Clarke does and the unbridled desire in Lexa’s eyes makes her thighs tremble and her head spin just as much as the ridge that bumps into her frontal wall each time Lexa partially pulls out and slams back in.

The quake spreads until it envelops her whole being, but it’s the choked whisper of her name, the way Lexa’s voice breaks over it, that causes Clarke to snap.

Heat rushes over her skin as she shudders and jerks through an orgasm of seismic proportions, a warm flood of come spilling from the join of their bodies, drenching the harness and Lexa’s stomach. 

Clarke screams through the big finish, an almost inhuman wail bursting from her throat.

(Thoroughly earning the nickname Raven and Octavia coined for her on the set of The Sixty Ninth Sense: “The Clexorcist”.)

And she just… keeps on coming. It probably only lasts a matter of seconds but it feels like it might never end, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over her.

With a final ragged moan, she sways forward and Lexa catches her by the biceps. 

Eyes darting all over Clarke’s face, Lexa looks like the one who just had her world well and truly rocked. She cups the back of Clarke’s neck and reels her in for a deep, searching kiss that Clarke struggles to keep up with, still breathless and reeling from the best fuck she’s had, on or off camera. 

She only gradually becomes aware that Lexa’s hips haven’t stopped swivelling, grinding; tiny micro movements that cause Clarke’s muscles to flutter and tense. Before long she’s chasing the pressure that feels just out of reach, rocking her pelvis back and forth with gathering momentum. With clumsy fingers she runs tight, quick circles around her clit and that’s all it takes to send her hurtling over the edge again.

“Oh, fuck. Lexa!” Gasped hoarsely into the heat of Lexa’s mouth.

By degrees their hips slow to a standstill but they can’t seem to tear themselves away from each other’s mouths. 

Lexa’s kisses are like molten lava, slow, scorching and devastating. 

Clarke lets them burn her up.

  
  


***

  
  


Carefully, Lexa rolls on top. The Nightstick is still sheathed inside Clarke and the slight wince on her face betrays the fact she must be feeling the tender after effects. 

As gently as possible, Lexa eases out completely and Clarke releases a soft sigh once the strap-on slips free, bringing with it another spill of wetness. 

For her part, Lexa can’t take her eyes off the sloppy mess between Clarke’s legs. She’s a split-second away from hunkering down and drinking her fill of that nectar when Clarke stalls her with a hand on her chest.

“Hold up, stud. I know you’re on some mission to kill me by, like, death by a thousand orgasms, but I need a minute, okay? Besides,” Clarke traces a line across Lexa’s clavicle. “It’s your turn.”

“So....” One brow arches. “How do you want it, babe?”

Every way imaginable, Lexa thinks. Especially if Clarke keeps calling her that.

What she says is: “Push your tits together.”

Clarke’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, eyes flashing as she realises what Lexa intends to do. Without question, she puts a hand on the outside swell of each breast to press them together and create the kind of cleavage that Lexa would love to set up permanent residence in. 

Shuffling forward on her knees, she grips the Nightstick, still coated with come and lube and inserts it between those beautiful breasts. While she can’t feel the soft skin surrounding the toy, the visual is stimulating enough: the contrast of starry black against pale white flesh and when Lexa begins to slowly rock forward, watching the thick shaft part creamy mounds, her mouth runs dry at the sight.

As the dildo slip-slides and the base rubs against her clit, Lexa jogs her hips faster, and she can do nothing to stem the whimpers and quick, shallow panting breaths that escape her parted lips.

She was already close from witnessing two spectacular orgasms and it’s barely any time at all before she feels the heat and pressure gathering in her lower abdomen. So she grits her teeth and doubles down, her movements becoming short and jerky as she tries to draw it out, to make it last.

But as soon as their eyes lock, Lexa starts to convulse. She covers Clarke’s hands with her own, gripping tight as every muscle locks up and she comes with a strangled moan. The ripples and little aftershocks continue for several seconds and she rides it out, rolling her hips until she ekes out every last drop of pleasure in a string of high gasps. 

Wobbly-legged and breathing hard, she moves off Clarke and flops onto her back, staring unseeingly at the ceiling, tiny spots of colour dancing across her vision.

“Fuck,” Lexa mutters, that single word loaded with wonder, and in her post-orgasmic euphoria, she‘s unable to reign in what is undoubtedly a stupid grin.

She turns her head to peer at Clarke, who at least looks similarly wrecked. 

There’s a small puddle of come on the slope of Clarke’s torso, a few trickles running down her ribs. Idly, Clarke gathers a droplet on her finger and brings it to her lips, sucking the digit clean and humming around the tip as she stares back at Lexa.

It makes her clench around nothing and, God, she wishes she wasn’t so powerfully affected by everything Clarke does. Around this woman, Lexa has zero fucking chill and she hasn’t totally reconciled how she feels about this. All she knows is she wants to taste herself on Clarke’s lips and skin.

With a slight residual tremble of her fingers, Lexa removes the harness and tosses the Nightstick away. It hits the floor at the side of the bed with a loud thud. 

She pulls Clarke towards her, bends to lick a wet stripe between Clarke’s breasts, up her sternum and the sweaty length of her throat, over her chin and into her open mouth. And Lexa groans at the flavour on Clarke’s tongue, again at the way Clarke’s hands wind urgently into her hair, tilting Lexa’s head to the opposite side to angle deeper into the kiss.

She could get used to this.

Because Clarke is addictive, a drug Lexa thinks she might already be hooked on, and the worrying thing is how much it _doesn’t_ worry her. 

She just wants more.

More kissing, more sex, more _Clarke_.

She wants to discover all of Clarke’s kinks, to learn what makes her come the hardest, to find out if she only screams when she’s on top.

And if it’s beyond the scope of tonight then Lexa wouldn’t be opposed to turning it into a two-time thing. Or three or four (to the power of infinity)...

Clarke draws back an inch, a contemplative glint in the black pools of her eyes, and the enigmatic little grin she sports gives Lexa odd palpitations as she wonders who gave Clarke the right to look so fucking _pretty_? With those eyes and the freckle above her lip and the dimple in her chin.

But, distracting beauty aside, Lexa sees the wheels turning and she’s curious to know what’s going through Clarke’s mind at this precise moment.

“What?”

“Just thinking, the Cummander and Kassie Skai would be a pretty explosive on-screen combination...”

There’s a pause. 

Lexa stares.

“Are you suggesting we _work_ together?” 

Clarke gives a small shrug. “I think it would be seriously fucking hot. I’m sure anyone with a pulse would too.”

“Obviously. But is the world ready for it? It might break the internet. Tear apart the fabric of society. Bring about nuclear armageddon. Do we want that on our conscience, Clarke?”

“I’m happy to take the chance.” A smirk. “Your people should get in touch with my people.”

“Mmm. I suppose we owe it to our fans and thirsty women-loving-women everywhere.” Lexa arranges her features into thoughtful consideration. “Orgasms must have orgasms.”

“Exactly. And in the meantime...” 

Clarke disentangles herself from Lexa’s arms and pushes her onto her back again. She throws a leg over Lexa’s body and leans down to capture an erect nipple between her lips. Lexa sighs at the wet heat that engulfs her breast, the slow lap of Clarke’s tongue causing a corresponding throb in her clit. Without conscious thought, Lexa’s fingers find their way into Clarke’s blonde waves, gathering her hair up and away from her face.

In no particular hurry, Clarke crawls down Lexa’s body, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in her wake.

“Since we’re two to one in your favour…”

Clarke licks at Lexa’s hip bone while she urges Lexa’s thighs up and wide apart and Lexa pulls in a shaky breath in anticipation.

Dark, ravenous eyes sweep from Lexa’s drenched folds, up the length of her torso to meet her hazy, heavy-lidded gaze. 

A puff of warm breath makes her shiver from head to toe.

“Let’s even the score.”


End file.
